


Blue Moon

by Dana_de_oz



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, Kalecgos gilipollas, Who needs a therapist when you can have a naked Tyrande
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28455939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dana_de_oz/pseuds/Dana_de_oz
Summary: War. It is cyclic. An act of violence elicits another in response, but so is its polar opposite. Jaina longs to bask Tyrande with the same kindness. To be better. To be again.
Relationships: Jaina Proudmoore/Tyrande Whisperwind
Comments: 13
Kudos: 30





	Blue Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a Sylvaina shipper but I’m also horny for the moon. No, I won’t elaborate.

Ever since it exists, Darnassus has been a somber place, though not in a depressing manner. The vestiges of a cursed kingdom are present everywhere in more ways than one, but it is part of its history and it is portrayed as such; a reminder of a triumphant past doomed by arrogance, staining the atmosphere with the melancholy of early morning hours. A perpetual luscofusco; serene, tranquil, a reflection of its citizens.

The buildings are covered with moss and the stones of walkways are conquered by roots; cracking their way out after the first wet season of autumn, embracing this obstacle and making it part of them; be it forgotten beneath their growth. In any other city, this would be a display of negligence. In any other city a gardener would be called to tear apart this stubborn exhibition of life, only for the space to be reclaimed once again with invincible perseverance, as it is doomed to happen until there is no one to call. It is an artful skill, invented and mastered by nature. Admired and imitated by mankind. 

The bridges are large and wide, connecting solid grounds that are cloaked by a harmonious set of leaves and the foundation of the buildings is strong deadwood, unevenly distributed across ample spaces. So unlike the suffocating streets of Stormwind. There is no hustle and bustle; no baker yelling prices neither old women negotiating them, no conglomerations of neighbours at the entrance of the bank, no kids running up and down with the latest toy on the market nor the periodic pounding of the blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil. 

No, the voice of this city is ancient and benevolent, from remote times. It spreads through the deep forests and understory like golden mist, suspended over every corner of Teldrassil; embedded in branches to whisper to trees when to undress before the harsh winds, into caves to lulls the bears to sleep, up the crown of pines to teach the birds how to sing and down the mountain to guide the stream of water towards the sea. 

Jaina can feel the peacefulness of it even here, in the night breeze that flows into the room through the window wall, gently swinging the bed veils. It’s a pleasant cold against her bare skin, refreshing even, that sweeps into her limbs and makes her feel energized like she just practiced the hardest workout, bloodstream still dancing. The moon is high in the sky, accompanied by constellations of stars that Jaina has recently learned a new nomenclature for. Where humans saw the most trustworthy map to guide them home, the night elves found their new immortality, for both birth and death shine eternally in the universe. 

Jaina loses herself in the beauty of the view. In the distraction, she stops brushing the aqua-green strands spread over her lap. 

A whine pulls Jaina’s lips in a smile. She looks down at Tyrande, who is now blinking sleepily, and reassumes her tender strokes as an apology. It’s still such a new dynamic, a side of Tyrande so intimate that most of the time Jaina feels she’s dreaming. Adherents would sacrifice their own lives if that meant the untouchable Elune’s High Priestess would glance in their direction, but here was Jaina; propped up against the headboard of a gigantic bed, surrounded by pompous pillows and under Tyrande’s naked body.

A body that is raising from the relaxed position it was in. Jaina does not have time to miss the warmth as Tyrande moves on her hands and knees, hovering over her almost lazily. _Elegant as a panther_ , Jaina distantly thinks, before losing all reason to the alluring picture of Tyrande on top of her. 

Her presence, even her mere mention is like tinder, lighting Jaina’s every nerve. 

Tyrande’s open lips ghost Jaina’s mouth. “Where has your mind wandered to?” she murmurs, voice thick as honey and just as sweet, tongue darting out to trace the inside of Jaina’s upper lip. The dizziness the action provokes has Jaina fighting the flutter of her eyelashes because she does not want to miss a single flicker of the light in Tyrande’s eyes. Somehow, she’s lucid enough to raise her hands and cup the elf’s face. 

“You. Always you.” Before she can deepen the kiss, Tyrande tilts her own head slightly to the right, pressing her face forward so her nose rests against the side of Jaina’s and her lips on the corner of her mouth. The closeness feels more loving than any kiss could. Jaina nuzzles in faintly as strong, calloused hands stroke a languid path along her inner tights before moving to her buttocks, a sigh escaping Jaina when they squeeze softly, and down towards the back of her knees. 

Tyrande sits on her heels and Jaina tries to chase the taste of her lips, but she’s gently pulled to lay down. Jaina lets herself be dragged as if she were floating in the sea at the mercy of gentle waves, calm and trusting.

Her body is so perfect it borders on the absurd. The whiteness casts her left side in bright purple, leaving the right one in the shadows, the outline of her body barely visible as it fuses with the darkness of the room. It is indiscernible who is the goddess and who is the reverent soul when the moonlight paints Tyrande’s curves with transparent devotion, bestowing her of an ethereal regality, so majestic even when bereft of any layer of clothes save for the blue pendant hanging between her full breasts and glinting silver earrings dangling from pointed ears. 

The most arousing aspect of it is that Jaina knows exactly how those lines of muscle feel under her touch. Soft as the silk under her palms, strong as the arrowheads she strikes true. 

It ignites a wick of lust along Jaina’s spine, exploding in the back of her head, burning her blood in a fire she fails to control yet making her shiver all the same. Jaina recalls vividly the first time she saw Tyrande, geared for battle in the high mounts of Hyjal, riding her frostsaber tiger into war. Death to all who threaten the wilds, she had screamed gloriously, ravaging every demon who dared to stand in her path. And how magnificent had she looked, standing tall and fierce between mangled dead bodies and rivers of blood. 

_I will never tire of watching her_

But the heady, hot desire comes with an unwanted guest, stopping her hand mid-air before it can touch Tyrande. Apprehension, more often than not, knocks loudly at her chest because _really_ what would such a divine entity find in a broken, lost being that is worth enough to stay? Kalecgos had said so, in an attempt to excuse himself by attacking her with twisted words of love: too human, too complex for a wise, old being to understand, too much to handle when she clings to her hatred like a shipwreck survivor to a lifebelt. 

Perhaps, what he and Jaina failed to recognize, is that hatred was what had her drowning.

A part of what she was, what she used to be, buried deep beneath the weight of grief, screams for exhumation. And Jaina digs with her hands and teeth, desperate to recover a fragment of a sanity that seems to dissolve with the sun each night, but the only thing that comes out is malformed emotions like red wriggling worms, mocking her exertion with their violent twitching.

Jaina jerks when her vision is suddenly obscured by Tyrande’s face, not having noticed when she had bow down, leaning on her elbow above Jaina’s head. Jaina could fill pages and pages about the sharp beauty that could cut like glass, beware the winds of the power worth of worship she held and be her message carried to every land.

Tyrande’s expression is one of tender concern, and Jaina feels tears sting her eyes at the endless patience Tyrande has shown her since her arrival. A heart that answered with goodness when all Jaina’s heart was able to do was mark the beat for the drums of war.

War. It is cyclic. An act of violence elicits another in response, but so is its polar opposite. Jaina longs to bask Tyrande with the same kindness. To be better. To be again.

“How can I make your demons disappear?” Tyrande whispers, close enough for her warm breath to engulf Jaina’s face and thoughts. The formulation is different every time, but the intention is the same; either by actions or words, Tyrande extends her hand, offering Jaina a chance to take it and break away from the dark abyss her mind is inclined to lost itself in.  
On normal days is a simple question like this one, clear and direct. Others, is a hand on the small of her back to guide Jaina through long night walks in the woods, which usually involves a lot of talking. On bad days, Tyrande presses hard against Jaina when her body is convulsing in despair. On really –but lately less common - bad days Jaina decides to push Tyrande away.

Tyrande’s left hand raises to caress Jaina’s cheek, and she realizes it is to wipe a tear that refused her frustrated command. The same hand drifts and reaches her chest, fingers tracing the scar of the gunshot still covered in angry skin, still a bleeding wound inside. How terrified Tyrande had been. She kisses it, so light and gentle. 

“All my demons disappear when I touch you.” 

Tyrande stares at her for a moment, scrutinizing the truth in Jaina’s statement. The habit of deception is hard to unlearn, even more so when the lie is expected, demanded. No one wanted to deal with the results of an unhinged woman, but the tornado inside Jaina threatened to destroy her from within, whether its catastrophic nature was approved or not.

Not in the Temple of the Moon, where Jaina, somehow, ended not long after the trial, her body dropped at the entrance like a fish on deck, struggling to breathe. Not in the Elune’s priestess arms where there is no room for condescension. Not where the moon waxes to cradle her. 

Tyrande smiles, retreats to lay down ever so graceful. Long, thick hair splayed on the pillows, a muscular leg bent and arms extended above, exposing everything. A willing offer. Desire eclipsing the mercurial glow. 

“Then touch me.”

Jaina moves hastily on top of Tyrande. The motion is clumsy in its humanness and the sheets tangle awkwardly around her legs, forcing her to stop and shake them until they slide out of the bed. Jaina does not ponder on the shame when Tyrande seems so amused by it; her laugh is melodic and she is looking up at her with a hint of incredulity, a bit of admiration. It’s a contagious sound that infects Jaina and makes it difficult to lock their lips together when they are smiling so widely against each other. Her eagerness has always seemed to confuse Tyrande on a certain level, and it’s inconceivable for Jaina the thought that no one has allowed the craving to love this woman consume them with free carelessness. This supreme force, this pull Tyrande seems to have on her is something Jaina does not understand nor questions; it feels right and natural, how impulsive it makes her. 

But how could it not be when every night, since the beginning of time, the tide rises high for the moon. 

Jaina shifts to lay between the elf’s legs, buries her face in Tyrande’s neck when strong arms wrap around her, inhales greedily. She smells like wild mint and petrichor, fresh and revitalizing.

“My dearest.” Tyrande says in wonder, arching her body.

Jaina is a seed in dry soil, and Tyrande is raining upon her. The signal to grow. The bloom of life.

**Author's Note:**

> It’s been a threesome all along because Elune likes to watch.
> 
> Every single grammar mistake is my fault.


End file.
